


I always come back to you

by stillusesapencil



Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, F/M, Future Fic, aged up character(s), author has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillusesapencil/pseuds/stillusesapencil
Summary: “John Ambrose McClaren?”He freezes. Only she ever called him that. Only her voice sounded that way.
Relationships: John Ambrose McClaren/Lara Jean Song-Covey, Peter Kavinsky/Lara Jean Song-Covey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	I always come back to you

**Author's Note:**

> I have not read the books. I've only seen the movies a couple times. But this scene dropped neatly into my head, almost fully formed and commanded I bring it into the world. Plus, there's a dearth of jam/lj fics out there, so even if this is sad, it helps

It’s a party. It’s a big NYC party, and John has an invitation, so he should go. Parties are not his scene, never have been, but this one promises to be full of good wine and polite conversation, and not drugs and cheap beer and paps, so he should go. He should go, because he’s a Broadway star now, and he’s expected to show up at the places he’s invited.

He can’t tell if it’s helping or hurting knowing on the guest list are Peter Kavinsky and Lara Jean Song-Covey.

He hasn’t spoken to either of them in ages. Kavinsky got scouted in college, made it big. He lives in New York now, and from what he can see in the tabloids, Lara Jean lives with him.

Lara Jean published a book, _Makeshift Engagement._ He read it cover to cover. Twice. He can see threads of Lara Jean herself in the heroine, pieces of Peter in the hero. Hints of Kitty in the best friend.

He taxis to the party. It’s cold, threatening snow. Maybe it’s his proximity to Lara Jean, but he remembers their own party with snow.

Inside the spacious apartment, he mingles with people he knows, meets people he doesn’t know, drinks only a little wine, eats a few of the catered treats. He doesn’t see either Peter or Lara Jean.

He prepares to leave, shrugging on his coat in the hallway.

“John Ambrose McClaren?”

He frezes. Only she ever called him that. Only her voice sounded that way. He turns, and there she is, a vision in turquoise. Again, he remembers. Again, he regrets.

“Lara Jean!”

She crosses to him and embraces him. She is so small, so fragile in his arms. “How are you?”

“I’m good. I’m good.”

“How’s Broadway? It looks like you’re amazing!”

“I enjoy it, I do.”

“I’ve been wanting to go, but Peter hasn’t wanted to yet,” she says regretfully.

“Where is Peter, anyway?”

“Oh—around.” She waves a vague hand.

“Oh. Well, tell him I said hello.”

“I will.” Her face flattens into one of those fake, plastered smiles, and they nod at each other for a few stilted seconds.

“How do you like NYC?”

“It’s big. Margo would love it here. I like walking places, it feels like something from an old movie!”

And there she is, that’s his Lara Jean. The one with a smile and magical fantasies. His heart squeezes, pained. “So you like it?”

The smile fades. “Yes. I like being with Peter.”

“Ah. Peter.”

“Yes.” Her face goes through a complicated series of emotions. “We’re getting married—soon.”

“Oh? That’s great, congratulations!”

“Yeah, we haven’t set a date yet, but we’re getting started on planning and things like that. So, hopefully soon.”

He reaches for her hand, aborts the motion. “That’s amazing, really.”

“Thank you.” Her words are small, but genuine.

His heart pounds, looking at her. Remembering all he’d lost. Wondering if he ever really moved on. Softly, he bares his soul to her in only a few words, showing the cards in his hand. “Are you happy?”

She hesitates, a corner of her mouth raising. “I enjoy the life I lead.”

“So it’s about the lifestyle, then?”

“I—” she raises a hand, drops it. “I never want for anything.”

“Cars and expensive foods. Fancy dresses, all that.”

“And—books. I write, now.” She bites her lower lip, that tic she’s always had when nervous. So familiar. So much like home.

“I know.”

“You do?” Her eyes shine when she looks up.

“Of course. You still bake?”

“Peter hires a cook.” 

He snorts, but stops himself from being an asshole and saying something further. “Well, if you’re ever not busy, give me a call.” He smiles, a faded impression of his regular joy when he’s with her.

“That’s…great! I’ll have to see when Peter’s not busy.”

“No, I—yeah, that’s fine. See you around.” He turns to go, putting a hand in his pocket.

“John Ambrose!”

He stops, captured by the sound of her voice saying his name. “Yes?”

“Maybe that’s…maybe that’s not such a good idea.” She lets out a breath, looking downward. “It was a bad idea last—last time. I’m with Peter now, and that’s the way it should be.”

At first, his decorum wins out, and he nods. And then something in his heart whispers to _press on._ “But does he _love_ you, Lara Jean?”

She takes a deep breath, sad. “He did.”

She looks, perhaps, like a lost princess, a tragic heroine. Like someone in the books she always read. Oh, that he could be the knight to come and sweep her away on a rescue.

“Did?” he repeats, gentle.

She twists her lips to the side. Finally, she manages, “Rooftop?”

Moments later, they emerge on the rooftop, bearing a pilfered bottle of white wine, and a plateful stacked high with snacks. They sit in two rickety armchairs, her dress spilling over the seat. He scoots his chair closer to share their purloined plate. They eat without speaking, giggling like children over the naughtiness of sneaking away. When their euphoria fades, her smile slips away.

She takes a good long drink straight from the bottle. “It’s not like we hate each other. We just…don’t really talk any more. I feel like we’re in it for show, now. It’s so silly—he always comes home and buys me all these nice things and he lets me write—but it’s just not the same.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I miss the way it used to be. I miss—I miss _high school_ , geez, never thought I’d say that. Things were different then.” She takes another drink. “I’m sorry for telling you this. I hurt you enough already.” She shivers.

“Lara Jean, we were kids.” He slips out of his jacket and throws it over her bare shoulders.

“Still wasn’t right.”

He reaches out, slowly, hand trembling, and strokes her forearm and wrist. “It’s alright. Really.”

She snatches his hand, leaning closer. “Sometimes I think about what might have been—the choices I didn’t make—”

He gently untangles his fingers from her. “I think I’d better be going now,” he says seriously. “And you’ve had enough of this.” He takes the now mostly empty wine bottle from her other hand.

She nods, not meeting his eyes.

“Goodnight, Lara Jean.”

And he leaves her, though his heart begs to stay. He takes the empty bottle. He takes his integrity. He takes most of his heart.

He leaves his jacket behind.


End file.
